I Could Lie
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: An AU based on the idea that House and Cuddy had a relationship before he met Stacy. Begins during their days at Michigan, ends in NJ.


Title: I Could Lie

Pairing: House/Cuddy

Rating: R, for language and mentions of sex

A/N: This fic starts out when Cuddy and House first meet at Michigan. Interspersed are lyrics from Nickel Creek's "Can't Complain". I wrote this about a year ago (I think) so it's really an AU based on the idea that House and Cuddy had a relationship before he started dating Stacy.

_i made her smile i made her cry,_

_i cleared her head and made her wonder why,_

_i helped her live and made her want to die,_

_but she can't complain,_

Greg knew someone was waiting just outside the door, eavesdropping, but he didn't care. He didn't appreciate being called in like some errant schoolboy, even if he did acknowledge that he'd been an asshole. At least he'd been _right._

"It was totally uncalled for," Dr. Stanton scolded.

"She was being an idiot," Greg snapped. He could tell this conversation was wrapping up.

"If you're going to make people cry every time you're faced with idiocy, you've chosen the wrong career path," Stanton sighed.

"I suppose the same could be said for teachers," Greg conceded.

"I think that's the closest thing to an admission of guilt that I'll get from you. Just...make nice with your teachers, Mr. House. For some reason, people assume I'm responsible for you and I don't want to nurse any more wounded egos than necessary."

The first time Greg House set eyes on Lisa Cuddy, she was staring at her shoelaces. He held the door to Stanton's office open for her, and she walked beneath his arm with a murmured thanks.

"Was that Greg House?" he heard her ask. He didn't care if she knew he was eavesdropping, but he doubted she did.

"You've heard of him?" Stanton asked, obviously amused. Greg was, too.

"I heard he made a T.A. in the French department cry."

Already a legend.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

"So...what did she do?"

Greg knew that voice. He knew that curly hair.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as drunk as he was.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she asked in return. Greg conceded. Even though this party was populated chiefly by med students, she fit in much better than he did. He was guessing that she was a junior, tops, but she was looking confident and intelligent and sexy and fun. Whereas he looked drunk and five years older than everyone else. _Christ, she looks sexy._

"Unfortunately, I live here," he answered. Ah. Blushing made it better.

"This is _your_ party?"

"Apologies for setting the curve."

"Oh."

"Are you even old enough to drink?" he asked, hoping to get more blush, but she just rolled her eyes and took a deep drink from her beer bottle.

"I'm 20."

"Good age."

"Thirty's good, too." She was bad at this. But he was drunk, so it didn't matter.

"I'm only 28, thanks very much."

"Oh, already fearing your mortality?"

"She was being an idiot," he answered. So what if it was an earlier question?

"Huh?"

"The T.A. I assume that's whom you were referring to earlier. She didn't know what she was talking about."

"I bet it was her first week on the job. She's probably younger than you."

"So? She was hired to teach French at the university. Presumably while obtaining a Masters in something or other. Hopefully not French. She should do her homework before trying to answer questions."

"Your questions?"

He just stared.

"Right. Of course. What questions would you possibly have? I suppose you're fluent."

"Oui," he smirked.

"Then why are you taking the class?"

"I need to complete a foreign language requirement. I heard French offers the easiest exam, but I wanted to brush up on my reading skills before taking it. Plus, it's something to do."

"What, med school not enough for you?"

"I don't sleep well."

"How many other languages do you speak?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just wondering how impressed I should be. I've heard a lot about you."

"Excluding French and English? Four."

"Jesus."

"Never got the hand of Aramaic. But I can read Latin and Greek as well."

"You're a freak. You know this."

"What's your name?"

"Lisa. Cuddy."

"Well, Cuddy, you want another beer?"

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

"You're hoarding all the biochem books I need," she greeted, staring at _his_ shoelaces this time. They were in the medical library, three weeks after midterms, and Greg had all of his belongings, not to mention remnants of a half-eaten lunch and his red Converse sneaks, sprawled out on the study table.

"Paper due?" he asked lazily, not bothering to clear space for her.

"You're not even _taking_ biochem," Cuddy whined. "God, you're a slob."

"I'm bored," he shrugged, but he moved his feet so she could grab a seat.

"There are other ways to keep yourself entertained," she answered, reaching for the book on top of the pile. He batted her hand away.

"Why, Cuddy, I'm shocked," he gasped in mock insult. "I'm not that kind of girl."

"Not what I heard."

"Questioning my virtue?"

"Who needs to question?"

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

"Need help studying?" he asked her.

"I didn't know you were awake," she said, not really answering. She hadn't meant to wake him. She didn't like to remind him that she needed to study. He wasn't sure why.

"That's not an answer," he mumbled into her warm underbelly. "Why are your panties monogrammed 'Miss Partypants'?" His breath on her sweat-cooled skin tickled. Or maybe it was the vibration of his throat, warm against her.

"Sorority nickname."

"Clever. What are you reading? Biochem?"

"Go back to sleep," she sighed, pushing his face away from her, but not too fast that she couldn't run her fingers through the curly hairs at the base of his neck. It still surprised her that some parts of him were incredibly soft.

"Oh, it won't be like last time," he grinned, but he gave her some space. The last time he'd "helped her study," he had spent the night reciting a chapter almost word for word from memory. It hadn't helped either of them meet their nightly goals.

"No. Because it's not biochem, or statistics, or any of your left-brain porn. It's a lit class."

"Why are you taking a _lit_ class?" he asked, nose scrunched up. She pretended it wasn't cute. No need encouraging him.

"Because I want to be a well-rounded human being."

"And because it's a requirement?"

"Go to sleep, House."

"What, are you reading feminist crap? Virginia Woolf? I could help, you know. I do enjoy right-brain porn sometimes. Variety is the spice of life."

"Please. You're the most uncultured man I know."

"You say that just because I enjoy soap operas and professional wrestling."

"Well, yes."

"Shows what you know. I'm _very_ cultured."

"Yeah? I don't think _Tommy_ counts as high art."

"There you are. Hiding behind your bourgeois clichés."

"There _you_ are, hiding behind movie quotes."

"You know, I can play a mean harmonica."

"God, I must have you _now_," she growled.

"Really?"

"No! Go to sleep! I have a test in the morning."

"Essay?"

"Part. I also have to identify passages."

"I can play the guitar, too."

"Greg."

"And the piano."

"Sure."

"I can speak six languages."

"Sleeeep."

"I can juggle."

"Can you follow simple instructions?"

He was quiet for a few minutes, but she couldn't concentrate because she knew he was about to say something. It was only a matter of time, and then –

"What are you reading?"

"Rilke," she sighed.

"Oh. _Him_. Piece of cake."

"Oh, really? Enlighten me," she snapped. It was three in the morning. She needed to stop doing this to herself. All of this revising should have been done days ago. But House had trouble sleeping, so now she did too.

He plucked the book from her hands, straddled her hips, and threw the book over his shoulder.

"Ahem.

'World was in the face of the beloved -,

But suddenly it poured out and was gone:

World is outside, world cannot be grasped.

Why didn't I, from the full, beloved face

As I raised it to my lips, why didn't I drink

World, so near that I could almost taste it?

Ah, I drank. Insatiably I drank.

But I was filled up also, with too much

World, and, drinking, I myself ran over.'

Left-brained my ass."

She didn't speak.

"Admit it. That was hot," he smirked. "Your pupils are dilated. Your breath is shallow and quick. You're flushed. I do believe you're about to orgasm."

"I'm going to go home if you don't shut up and let me study."

"Fine, fine," he sighed. "Girls these days. Just love you and leave you. I feel so used. So dirty."

"Go take a shower. Get my book on your way."

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

"You're going to be a great doctor," she told him. Her hands fidgeted with his collar, smoothing down his robe, feeling his strong upper arms. She knew these muscle groups. He'd helped her with that.

"I know," he answered. He was distracted. His eyes kept flitting up to the stands of the civic center. She'd met his parents, about three months ago. It was obvious to them all that she was a short-termer. It wasn't anyone's fault. They both had places they needed to be, and right now, Lisa was trying to convince her hands that it was time to let him go.

"Just don't screw it up," she smiled. It got his attention.

"You know, day or night, if you need a good fuck I'm always here," he grinned, but she could read him now. The trick was to cut out the words in the middle. They tended to be filler, a space for him to show off his intelligence or his wit or, heaven help the Jersey girls, his charm. She knew what he was saying.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come to the airport with you?" she asked one more time.

He was about to say something, she was certain, but the announcement came over the PA for the graduating class to get in line. Her grip on his sleeves tightened.

"Lisa, I have to go," he frowned. He kissed her.

For days, she damned her hands for letting go so easily.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

_she tried to date a friend of mine,_

_i was at his house when she came to say goodbye,_

_he stood her up she took it as a sign,_

_and i can't complain,_

Five years later, on a Friday night, Greg House was sitting on James Wilson's couch, drinking a sudsy beer and watching _Night Court_ when the doorbell rang. James was in the middle of what would become a between-marriage tradition: ye olde barf and weep. Currently he was in the barfing stage, bringing up chili dogs and too much cheap beer, plus whatever he'd idiotically imbibed the night before. So House did the humane thing and answered the door.

"Greg!" she gasped. He knew that curly hair.

"Oh, please tell me you're taking me up on that offer," he smiled, opening the door wider, even though he knew why she had to be here. Another between-marriage tradition.

"AMA conference," she answered quickly. She looked deflated, somehow.

"And what, Boy Wonder Oncologist is on the tour?" he asked.

"Well...he sort of stood me up. For lunch. And I wanted to...check," she answered, blushing but looking him in the eyes.

"You wanted to kick him in the balls," he beamed, shooing her inside. "Aim low. He's praying to the porceline god at the moment. Whatever you two got up to last night must really be doing a number on him."

"What makes you think...never mind. I obviously know where he lives. So...how have you been?"

"Oh, this isn't at all awkward."

"Why should it be?"

"Well, I can easily share a case of beer with my best friend, but this is a bit different."

"Still a sweet talker, I see. Hi James!"

James Wilson had just half-crawled out of the bathroom, ready to yell at House for...something he couldn't quite remember. And now he was faced with another something he couldn't quite remember.

"Uh..."

"Lisa," she provided, giving Greg a _Who the hell is this guy and why am I not surprised he's your friend_ look.

"I know," he blurted. "Lisa. Shit, I was supposed to...lunch."

"It's ok. I just came to say goodbye," she smiled. He was cute. But that was all.

"I thought you were staying for the conference?" Greg asked.

_we took off for the weekend and had quite a time,_

_we shared everything we'd ever tried,_

_i told her i could love her i told her i could lie,_

_so she can't complain,_

It was easy to catch up. They'd grown older, and that was all that had changed. Of course there had been love affairs. One night stands. Arguments at work (especially on Greg's side of the world). Regrets that they didn't want to admit to. Friends. Loss. Lisa's mother had died. Greg had gotten a girl pregnant but it didn't take. That was all that had changed, at least between them. They didn't admit to these things right then, in Wilson's living room. They left him searching for antacids. Greg drove them to the cape for a long weekend. Lisa didn't bother pretending that it was just what she needed.

"Did you miss me?" he asked her. They were full of crabs and wine and a too-rich chocolate torte. Lisa was making faces at the cigar smoke circling in the air and he was trying to blow smoke rings.

"You were never boring," she replied. A non-answer, but Greg let it go.

"I could keep you entertained," he leered. "Floor show is notoriously cheap but quite a spectacle."

"Dancing poodles? Acrobatic feats?"

"I've kept myself trimmed," he smirked, stealing the last sips of her wine.

"Pity," she purred, surprising herself, but only a bit, as she stroked his smooth cheek with her cold palm. "I always like it a bit rough."

"Please. I've never met someone so adamant about the missionary position," he teased, grabbing her hand and leading her fingers to his mouth.

"I've picked up a few things. Anatomy classes. Enlightening."

"Oh, now you're speaking my language."

"One of six?" she asked, still impressed. By his brain. By his wit. By his tongue on her fingertips. His smell, his eyes, his ability to hold his liquor.

"Seven," he corrected.

"I thought it was six?"

"Everybody lies."

"Do you?"

He had been playing with her hair, wrapping the curls around his long fingers and releasing them, taking pleasure in their soft elasticity. In the residue of sweat clinging in a film to his fingertips. But her question made him look up. He tried to be an honest man. Not because of some moral code, because that sense of self-righteous superiority was what sickened him about his father, but because he dealt in truths in his profession. There was no room for white lies, for false hope, for embarrassing secrets. They slowed him down, and that was something he couldn't bear. But did he ever lie? Of course. He wasn't very good at it, he'd admit. He'd often try to work around the truth with words, counting on short attention spans and lack of discernment to see him through. If it was something important he was lying about, he nearly always got caught. But little things...if he spent seventy percent of his day speaking with a sarcastic tone, it became difficult to differentiate between being an asshole and being a liar.

"I can," he finally answered.

Later, he gasped, "I could love you." As his heartbeat slowed and her grip on his shoulders loosened, she wondered if the fact of him being inside her was proof enough of a lack of sincerity.

_she moved here and bought the first house she could find,_

_i moved in and we locked ourselves inside, _

_i guess we just kidnapped each others minds,_

_so we can't complain,_

She moved to Princeton a year later. She'd been living with other people her entire life, so this time she wanted things to be different. She wanted a home of her own. In two weeks, she sold almost everything she owned, including her car, and had scrounged up enough to make a bid on a small house about twenty miles from the hospital. It was too empty, at first. All she had was some basic furniture, mismatching plates, and dowdy dresses that she hated. But they looked professional.

"I brought you something," Greg greeted. She'd given him a key. And two drawers in her dresser.

"It's…a rooster," she sighed, refusing to play along with his juvenile sense of humor.

"It's a cookie jar," he shrugged. "Want one?" he added, lifting the lid. He looked nervous. She took it easy on him and reached inside.

"What…?"

"I swear I didn't do it," he whined as she read the eviction notice in her hands.

"You were kicked out of your apartment for…public nudity?" she laughed. "Why wasn't I invited?"

"I…first off, it wasn't _me_. It was Wilson. And he was drunk. And before you ask, I _didn't_ take advantage. He just…got confused and went into the hallway to pee."

He was staring at her chest. She thought he was just too uncomfortable to look her in the eye. That, and he _always_ stared at her chest.

"You're going to pay rent," she warned.

"And you're going to walk around in incredibly sexy lingerie twenty-four hours a day, feed me grapes, and never complain about dishes or toilet seats," he smiled.

"We'll need to consult with psych about this break with reality you're having," she answered, but she let him move in with her just the same. She told herself that she wasn't giving anything up if he didn't expect anything from her in the first place.

_i cheated on her with a friend of mine,_

_and there are no days when we don't fight,_

_but remember i warned her and i'm a guy,_

_so she can't complain_

It was never only about the sex. But in the end, that's what held them together when all else had gone. She was a short-termer. And it wasn't anyone's fault. Greg loved her, in his way, but he had other things on his mind more often than not. And she was busy with her career, trying to become the youngest dean of medicine ever. Eventually, Greg found his own place. She and Wilson helped him move in, fought over the books he was giving away, debated about where to put the piano and which poster should go on which wall. They didn't break up. They never talked about what the change meant. The only thing they ever said about the status of their relationship was that it wasn't _only_ about the sex. Exclusivity was implied in the many nights they spent together, at her house or at his apartment, at the dinners with Wilson and whatever wife he was with. At lunches with Lisa's friends from work and Greg's friends from all the places he hid from work. When he told her that he'd met someone and wanted to try to build something with her, it had stung both of them. But Lisa had her job, and sometimes fighting with Greg was almost as good as fucking him. Almost.

Until things fell apart. Greg's leg. Greg's relationship with Stacy. That was hard enough to watch, but Lisa didn't just watch. She helped. And he knew it. And then, it wasn't Greg and Lisa any more. Things fell apart and they lost the right to familiarity. House had been too stubborn. Cuddy had been too deceitful. When he could walk again, he left her spare key under a flower planter near her front door. She didn't have much left of him to throw in his face. Knowing that made it harder. She kept the few t-shirts he'd left behind. She kept his pair of novelty "kiss my ass" boxers in her underwear drawer. His lab coat that he'd left in her car after a dinner out with Stacy and Wilson was hanging in her closet. They never mentioned that. And he never wore another lab coat.

Eventually, they fought again, and made each other flush again, and, occasionally, when drunk or lonely or too happy to remember why they shouldn't, they slept together again. And again. He mocked her in the halls, leering in that familiar, intimate way, and she thought that they'd forgiven each other. She was hard on him, pushed him too far sometimes. It was a bad habit that they both needed. She loved him in her own way, too. It had never only been about the sex. And again, it had never really been enough. But whatever they said, it wasn't a game and it wasn't a dance. It was history and late nights and warmth and jokes and it was bloody and frustrating and hurtful. It was honest. And neither of them could complain. But they did. Because everybody lies.


End file.
